Flash Harry
by DrMckay
Summary: STORY ABANDONED.Harry Potter is taken from Privet Drive at a young age by an eccentric older relative named Harry Paget Flashman. How will this change in upbringing shape the boy and his world? You do not need to have read the Flashman series to get this.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I'm writing this story in honor of the late Mr. George Macdonald Fraser, a favorite author of mine, as well as to prove to a friend that a crossover between the Flashman series, (my favorite) and the Harry Potter series, (her favorite) could, in fact, be written.

**(story and A/N's edited for clarity,** **9/23/2009)**

I have edited slightly for minor errors and some dialogue. (It's tough editing your own work without minor slipups.)Hope I got the characters of the Dursleys and any British terms correct. I'm an American, and Harry Potter isn't exactly my bailiwick.

You do not need to have read the Flashman Series to understand this story-I will be providing backstory, though I'd recommend reading the series anyway, purely for its literary excellence.

**Permit me make this clear right now:**

_There are no perfect people in this story_, no paragons of light and justice. They are self-interested people living in a screwed-up world, and human beings, plain and simple.

That means everyone has their own agenda-usually what is best for them at any given moment. They have their own reasons for behaving the way they do, and their own agenda which I will attempt to depict from Harry's limited perspective.

**The Story:**

If you are looking for easily likeable Protagonists, easily bashable Antagonists, and some sort of Abused/Badass/Super Harry who knows exactly what he's doing all the time, by all means, don't look here.

The Harry of this story was rescued from a poor, neglectful family situation, is a fairly cynical about human nature, and is primarily interested in what is best for him. He's no genius but has a decent head on his shoulders, and just wants to survive- hopefully with his reputation intact, and grab some cash if the opportunity arises.

**Updates and Feedback:**

This story will be updated as soon as I can think up new material for it, and when I am satisfied with the additions. No sooner, and no later. As always, reviews are welcomed, constructive criticism is encouraged, and anonymous flamers cheerfully invited to bugger off.

**Standard disclaimer: I **do not own any of the characters or universes written about by Mr. Fraser or Ms. Rowling. Mixing them, however, _was_ my idea.

Without further ado, I present:

**Flash Harry**

(All papers published with the permission of the Potter-Paget family, Copyright Quibbler Press, 2127)

To whom it may concern:

Before you begin prying into my affairs, (of which there were many,) you should know that I am writing about them for several reasons: to continue a family tradition, as a way to sort out my rather chaotic life before I shuffle off, and to shock the underthings off of any adoring fans or clean-living, overly virtuous offspring who read this. Which is precisely why I have requested it be published-unaltered–mind, by the Quibbler press.

Methodical consideration of all the angles is one of the many ways to extricate oneself from sticky situations. Other options are luck, pluck, superior firepower- or the learned family traits of charm, sycophancy, and rapid reaction to sheer blind panic. Any of these will (and have) worked for me in a pinch. But that's a story for another day.

I suppose that just as another Harry in my family said, usually after the port has had its way with him, the best place to begin a story is not in the boring old set-up of who went where when and with whose enchanted shoe buckle with its unique and special history (I suppose the old man had been at the Tolkien again in addition to the liquor cabinet…)

Rather, according to him, the best place to start a story is when the circumstances around the "Hero" are drastically and irrevocably altered. I shall attempt to oblige.

Scientists, vicars, and politicians catering to special interests can argue about when a life "actually" begins 'till the cows come home to roost. Unlike many, I have the benefit of knowing exactly when my life really began- and it wasn't when my Mummy and Daddy danced the mattress quadrille, nor was it when the example of male perfection that is me was delivered in late June.

The interesting, bloody, and salacious bits of my life began on a Wednesday in June during my seventh year of existence on this planet. That would be the day I left the tender care of my utter bastard of an uncle, frigid bitch of a blood-related aunt, and my brutish lout of a cousin for the dubious improvement of being looked after by a proliferate gambler, a self-proclaimed coward and a shameless lecher, all in the singular person of my great, great, great grandfather.

His usurious interests in pleasures of the flesh aside, the role he played as my parent and mentor made me capable of surviving- and even thriving in a role I was forced into by others before even being born.

But I shall relate the specifics in time.

-Harry James Potter-Paget,

Gandamack Lodge, Berkeley Square,

April 5, 2121


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: New Beginnings **

_**The ideal time to be a hero is when the battle is over and the other fellows are dead, God rest 'em, and you take the credit.**_

**-Sir Harry Paget Flashman, in ****Royal Flash****, By George Macdonald Fraser**

As a literature obsessed acquaintance of mine once said, there are always several sides to any story. I'm sticking with the unvarnished truth 'cos it's the ugly, crude bits you all really want to hear about anyways. Honesty in all things I suppose- It's a new concept for me.

Everything changed on a muggy July day shortly after the seventh anniversary of my birth, commemorated as usual by a five-pence piece and a tirade about my ungratefulness from my Uncle, while my Aunt ordered me to go out and work in the garden.

Again.

I was weeding the flower beds, dressed in my porcine cousin's earth-stained, ill-fitting castoffs when a silver Rolls Royce belching a cloud of noxious black smoke rolled up to the kerb in front of me.

As it lurched to a halt, I noticed that the silver paint had faded to gray, and the chrome finishing was dented and rust-spotted. I did not know it yet but this car, with its elegant first appearance contrasting so dramatically with its shabby reality made an excellent metaphor for the person of my thrice-great grandfather.

The driver's side door opened, and a man walked around. He was an older gent, tall and heavyset with a regal, dangerous bearing only enhanced by gimlet eyes, an eagle's beak of a nose, and gray whiskers of a type now seen only in the history books. He was dressed in a dark blue suit of conservative cut, and 'round his neck was a tie patterned with what I later found out was a Scottish tartan.

He stared at me, and in a warm, cheerful voice asked,

"Hullo young shaver, I'm looking for a Petunia and Vernon Dursley-"

Not caring if I got on the bad side of another of their acquaintances before my rotten relatives could badmouth me to him; I mutely pointed to Number Four, and got back to the weeding. If I didn't finish up soon, lunch would not be forthcoming.

Oddly enough, he didn't walk towards the door.

"I'm assuming you live here as well," he said, "Long commute's probably a bit much for a boy your age to work on the gardens." He stared archly at me, "Well sonny, What're you waiting for, take me to your mum and dad, I've got some business with them."

"Can't, sir." I glared defiantly at him, "They're dead. The Dursleys are my Aunt and Uncle."

For whatever that's worth, I thought.

"Ah, he speaks!" Exclaimed the man, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Does he have a name?"

I wasn't about to let my first actual conversation with a grownup go so quickly, and resolved to be more courteous.

"Potter, sir, Harry James." Saying it exactly as the teachers at primary did during roll call, and going for a sympathy grab, while putting a pathetically sad look on my face, "But Aunt and Uncle call me 'Boy'."

"Harry, eh?" he looked amused, "Good name. Lots of smart, handsome gents named Harry. Ye've manners too, when you choose to use 'em.

Smart of ye, trying to get me to hate your Aunt and Uncle 'fore I meet 'em, which if they resemble Petunia's parents any, I won't have a problem doing- load of nosy, hypocritical bastards they were."

He tipped me a conspiratorial wink,

"I see you're living up to your heritage already, even though you don't know it yet. Good. Come along, things to do, people to insult."

I said nothing, merely content to follow the mischievous mustachioed marauder (alliterative, ain't I,) as he strode up the surgically clean walkway to Number Four, Privet Drive, and knocked on the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: Parting… Such Sweet Sorrow?**

"…_**The place I found wet and the people rude. They had fine qualities which bore me - thrift and industry and long-faced holiness."**_****

**Sir Harry Paget Flashman,**__**in ****Flashman,**** by George MacDonald Fraser**

The grey-haired man knocked a genteel three times and hid behind the doorjamb awaiting a response, which wasn't long in coming.

My Aunt opened the door with a sour expression on her face. I understood completely; if I had to share a bed with Uncle Vernon, my expression would be pretty damn sour too-not that the horsy bitch was any great prize herself.

One takes what one can get in life I suppose. It evens out though- I've managed to 'take' quite a few lovely ladies in my time…

But I digress…

"You couldn't have finished with the garden that quickly." She said snidely, "You're not getting any water until you do, ungrateful whelp!"

Before she could berate me further, the grizzled old man swung rapidly into her vision, and s quickly intruded into her personal space.

"Petunia Dursley?" He inquired, with a Devil-May-Care grin on his phiz.

Startled, my Aunt screamed, "Fire! Police! Vernon!" backpedaling rapidly, and allowing him through the doorway-I followed close on his heels, determined not to miss this for anything.

"Well, I daren't believe ye'd remember me, you were only six."

Her mouth opened and shut rapidly, but no sound came, as she desperately tried to recall when she'd seen him last.

"Great-Uncle Harry," She breathed, remembering at last, "Mum and Dad _hated _you! Said you were a depraved old man-with-with insatiable urges..."

"Still alive," he crowed, and still got 'em!"

He gave her a filthy leer just as Vernon arrived brandishing a golf club, red-faced from the absolute _marathon_ he had run all the way downstairs. Dudley followed close at hand, always eager to see violence done.

If he had known then what awaited him, he wouldn't have, but what d'ye expect from a lump whose only interests consisted of pummeling me, demanding new things, and attempting to break the Guinness World Record weight for heaviest child on the planet.

He was off to a good start on that at least.

Now I understood why he had laughed upon finding out that I answered to Harry- I'd been named for him! If he angered my relatives so, I realized for the first, (and only time,) I had a legacy to live up to.

Anyways, back to the action-picture the stage set thus: Cherry-Red Vernon about to brain my just revealed Great Uncle with a putter for giving my sallow-faced Aunt Petunia a look that would be considered illegal in most civilised (read: prudish) countries, while Darling Dudders and I looked on in morbid interest.

In a trice, Uncle Harry had the club away from Vernon and proceeded to knock the wind out of him with a well-placed left. Fatso staggered back clutching his overlarge paunch like a sea cow about to give birth.

"Right!" says he, "That's enough. I'm here on family business, I'll try to make it civil, but lord knows you bunch of dolts ain't making it easy." He looked at me, "The business concerns you. Sir Harry Paget Flashman, at your service, I'm your Great-Uncle, boy."

He stuck out his hand. It reminded me of the branch of an old tree I had seen in the park once, all tanned, gnarled, and scarred.

"Call me Uncle Flashy. Bit less confusing all around."

Not knowing what else to do, I shook it.

Flashy continued,

'Parently, your mum, who did remember me, seeing as how she named ye after me sent me a letter asking me to look after you if she died, and not put you with the Dursleys or her folks-Seems she liked them as much as they like you.

Sorry to say, I've been out of the country for a the past few years, and Darkest Africa ain't exactly the best place te get post. I only got the letter some weeks ago."

A long-lost relative come to rescue me from the Dursleys! My dreams had come true.

"We-we're supposed to just let you take him?" Choked Vernon, dumbfounded.

"Why not? Flashy asked, "You don't want him, he don't want to be here, do ye?" he asked me.

I was left with a choice between the Dursleys and a strange old man who I'd met only moments before. It was a no-brainer. I shook my head, looking as pathetic as possible.

"I've got the papers here, so everything'll be nice and legal." He extended a sheaf of official looking documents and a fountain pen to Vernon.

Petunia started in again "But what about that bearded old-"

"Shush, Pet," Wheezed Vernon, still gasping from the punch, "His problem now, I'll sign the papers."

"Right, sonny," he said to me, as Vernon happily signed my custody away, "Grab your things from your room, and get ready to go."

I made for the Cupboard and opened the door. As I gathered the few belongings I had, clothes, mostly, Uncle Flashy caught sight of the cot and spiders on the inside, and the latch on the outside. His face went pale, a sign, I found out later, to be indicative of great anger.

(Conversely, when he became afraid, he went red and puffed up, looking angrier and more indomitable- Quite a handy trait to have, and I've made a considerable effort to cultivate it myself, as it befuddles the riff-raff to no end, and those few seconds of confusion can buy you a bit more life.)

"You locked a _Flashman_ in a cupboard?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.

"All he deserved," muttered Vernon, "ungrateful freak, he is. Like his mum and dad."

I seethed, but did nothing. I wanted to see how my new guardian proposed to handle this.

"Are you _quite_ done?" If possible, Uncle Harry's voice got even lower, and I swear I felt the temperature in the room drop a few degrees.

Vernon set down the pen, and smiled a sickly sweet smile, which on him, looked more absurd than frightening.

I watched in awe as my Great-Uncle (who had to be past sixty,) sucker-punched and pinned Vernon, who had to weigh two of him, against the wall. He looked at me, and simply said,

"I think a bit of payback's in order." He jerked his head at Dudley.

I nodded, dropped my belongings. I finally had the chance to hit back without fear of unjust punishment, so I took it.

I balled up a fist and hit my longtime tormentor with all I had, hoping to give him a broken nose, or a black eye, at least-

Dudley crumpled to the floor clutching his nose which had suddenly started to spout blood, while Petunia stood, still in shock, and-

"NO!" Flashy bellowed genially, "Don't hit him in the face!" For a second Petunia looked relieved.

He continued, "You'll break your hand. Watch." With that, he punched the already doubled-over Vernon in the stomach. Again. He folded like a deck of cards-a fat, ugly deck of cards.

"D'ye know the best part about hitting someone in the stomach, son?"

I looked at the supine ball of lard that was Vernon and sobbing mini-cream-puff also known as Dudley, "Er, larger target? On them I mean."

"And it leaves no incriminating marks. Almost as good as a hit to the unmentionables."

He grabbed the completed papers from Vernon, and turned to me again, "Anything else before we depart."

I grinned evilly, thumping Dudders in the stomach, a couple of times, and giving what would become the first of many 'Harry's Patented Farewell Addresses;'

"Bye everyone, I'd tell you to eat shit and die, but since you've made me cook your breakfasts for years without letting my have any, you've already managed the shiteating. As for dying…"

I looked at my bewhiskered benefactor, who glowered at my cowed relations. He certainly had intimidation down pat, "Cross him or me again, and it'll be slow and painful."

He turned to me, "Come on, lad, we're done here." We walked out the door, down the perfectly-kept path, and got into the Rolls. As I hopped into the passenger seat, Uncle Flashy turned to me while fiddling with the ignition, and asked, with a slantedtacular glance,

"Did you actually do something that utterly depraved and filthy?"

"No Uncle," I smiled, "But they think I did."

He pounded on the dash and barked a laugh,

"Good show, remember, if you've got to handle the smelly stuff, better to pay someone else, hey?"

I nodded, and Uncle Flashy continued his abuse of the dashboard and steering column. After a more thumping and profanity the engine coughed into life, belching noxious blue smoke.

As the Rolls began to carry me into a new life, away from Number Four, Privet Drive and normality, I considered my situation;

I had had my revenge on my odious relatives and whatever lay ahead, living with my strange new Uncle would probably lie on the wrong side of normal.

Nothing, thought I, could make me happier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** To answer many requests about 'Uncle Harry,' Sir Harry Paget Flashman

Is a self-admitted cad, sot, coward, and all around bastard. His only redeeming characteristics are his absolute determination to protect his family, an ability to fight like a trapped rat when cornered and unable to surrender, and his complete honesty. (Only In his memoirs.)

.org/wiki/Flashman

is originally from the Victorian Era. He is far from normal to still be alive in the 1990's. I will explain why in due course. He actually is Harry's multi-great grandfather, but has Harry refer to him as "Uncle" to keep his longevity and secrets, well, secret.

As to the Flashman Series, I'd highly recommend it, in addition to Fraser's numerous other works. Again, I'd like to say the man's a brilliant author, and my stuff is a pale, bland homage to his far better work.

**Chapter 3: Finding a Home**

_**But you will have noticed, no doubt, that when a man has a reputation, good or bad, folk will always delight in adding to it…"**_

**-****Flashman****, By George MacDonald Fraser**

In the days to come, I was to learn that the considerable talents for survival and manipulation I had acquired from a childhood with the Dursleys were those of a rank amateur compared with the ones possessed by my Uncle Harry.

It's understandable though-he'd been around a good deal longer than I had. Just how much longer was revealed in a confrontation shortly after we arrived at my new home, the once-glamorous townhouse of Gandamack Lodge in Berkeley Square, London.

While he had thus far treated me better than the Dursleys, (not hard to do,) I was mindful of the mean streak my new guardian had displayed-and though it had yet to be directed at me, it gave me pause. Add to that his relatively young age to be Petunia's Uncle and the man's odd speech and mannerisms, and my teeth were set on edge as soon as my bottom hit the slightly cracked leather of the Rolls' rear seat.

Pondering my quick decision to depart with him, I wondered, had I really made the right choice?

At least the Dursleys were a known quantity.

Flashy was as sharp as they come, and to his credit, he picked up on my unease almost immediately. Instead of striking up an awkward conversation, he simply informed me of our destination- his home in London, and set to driving the car, leaving a comfortable silence in which I contemplated my changed circumstances.

As we drove through London, I took it all in; the tall buildings skyscrapers mixing with older architecture, all of it lit up, and none of it seeming to match the dreary depressing sameness of Little Whinging, Surrey.

We drove past a block full of nothing but trees and lawn, pulling into the driveway of one of the older townhouses, and Flashman perked right up.

"Right. Here we are. Gandamack Lodge, on Berkeley Square. It's been a while since I've called it home-Still got the deeds and keys though.

Lot of High nobs live here- poncy bastards won't know what hit them once we get the place cleaned up a bit."

He passed me a key, saying "Here, open up the garage, and I'll park this monstrosity."

Apparently the Rolls took offense at that and stopped running just after I had opened the door to get out. The car's uneven temperament mean that I had to open the garage door and then hop into the drivers' seat to release the brake and steer the car in while Flashy sweated, cursed, and pushed from the rear.

We left the garage for the front door, and as my Great-Uncle opened it with a large, old-fashioned key, I saw a dark hallway covered in dust.

The sun was going down, though the elegant chandeliers in the hall remained unlit, and he struck some oil lamps in the hall, leaving a warm yellow light to accompany us down the black-and-white tiled hall. As my eyes grew accustomed to the softer light, I noticed the hall was lined with swords, busts of commanders, Prime Ministers, and fine paintings, most of soldiers in battle.

As we entered the living room, full of battered, comfortable-looking chairs and bookshelves stocked with volumes of all sorts, one picture of worn men in beat-up shakoes and ragged greatcoats clustered together in harsh terrain caught my eye-Something about the forlorn expressions reminded me of my own meager existence.

"Ah," said Flashy. "You're looking at Gandamack. It was the January thirteenth, of '42…" He paused and gave a wry grin, "Eighteen Forty-Two, that is, though I got dragged into El Alamein as well…I was up on one of the cliffs…"

He pointed up to a distant ridgeline in the painting,

"…with a Sergeant named Hudson, trying to make it back to our lines after our army had been routed near Kabul. I was determined from the outset to survive at any cost, see?"

"Yes, sir." I replied.

"We saw the last remnants of the 44th Essex standing to the last.

There were only sixty left, completely surrounded by Afghani hillmen with their deadly Jezzails, cold, tired, not a dozen working muskets among them, and still they stood.

The Afghans said they had fought enough, and announced that surrender could be arranged, and the response came, as someone-probably a Sergeant of the 44th -

– Remember, Lad, British Army's got some of the best Sergeants in the world, lad, wonderful skills and common sense, mainly 'cos they've got te deal with rotten officers, and I ought to know, I was a really rotten officer-

Anyways, the bloke bellows; 'Not Bloody Likely!' and then the Jezzails picked up again, before the hordes closed in. One, maybe two of the men lived.

'Die Hard 44th!' Hudson yelled, and I told him to shut his gob before he got us noticed and killed-or worse, handed over to the women for torture. Hell hath no fury, m'boy. Especially if you've done something to anger 'em-which I had-"

He paused, and I noticed his eyes fill with a remembered pain for a minute. Then he continued,

"-er, more on that later, lad.

The reason the picture is up there is to remind me never to get involved in some damn heroic last stand, because heroes, real heroes die like flies in battle. Trying to make a name, or worse, trying to keep one.

I managed both-I was lucky. Or cursed. You can view it either way."

He sank into a well-used armchair, stuck his feet up on a battered coffee table and poured himself a tumbler of brandy, while looking at me speculatively,

"You've got questions, I shouldn't wonder. Ask away."

I cocked my head skeptically, "You do look rather young for a hundred-eighty-year old, sir, and I haven't heard of anyone reaching nearly that age. It's not well… normal."

"Normal." He gave an undignified snort, "Aye, there's the rub. In my life, I've ne'er had a nodding acquaintance with the word. Seen some strange things, some horrible things…"

He trailed off, and returned to the topic at hand, tossing back the brandy, and pouring himself another. He had a prodigious appetite for the sauce, my Uncle.

"A good host would offer you tea," he remarked, after noticing that I had no beverage, "But I ain't a good host. Nor have I got any- never could stand the foul stuff- to which I credit at least part of my longevity."

I nodded in sympathy; one of the only good things about my position at the Dursleys was that I never had to drink any of my Aunt Petunia's foul smelling brews when she had her weekly troupe of gossip-mongering harpies and their henpecked husbands over for tea. Uncle Vernon and Dudley weren't so lucky. I always tried to look miserable and put out, but inwardly, I danced for joy.

My guardian slid me a tumbler from the whisky tray.

" Laid in a bottle of cider at the back of the pantry, not powerful enough to get you foxed, but good for a warm-up. Get some of that down ye, and I'll tell the tale- if you've the ears for it."

I nodded and hurried to the kitchen. This was sure to be a great story.

As I arrived in the living room, libation in hand, I noticed Sir Harry dozing in the armchair. After placing the cider on the table, I gave him a few gentle prods, and he jumped awake while pulling a knife seemingly from nowhere, and holding me tight by the scruff of the neck.

He then remembered where he was, and put the knife back with a muttered apology. "Always forget where I am for a moment…" I waved it off, anxious to hear what he had to say, and desperately trying to give my Great-Uncle-Grand-whatever the benefit of the doubt.

"Right then," he said, looking a bit chagrined "Best have a seat, we'll be here a while."

Choosing a suitably battered armchair across from him, I settled in. While Uncle Harry was lubricated by his brandy, and I relaxed with a glass of cider, he told the most fantastic story of my young life.

"Te start with, Harry, I'm not your Great-Uncle, I am actually your Great, Great-Great Grandfather, but you'd probably better keep calling me Uncle Flashy.

Not many hundred-eighty-year olds about, doncha know."

"Anyway, It all started when Allan dragged me off on one of his adventures in the interior of the Dark Continent. I won't go into the gory particulars, but when it was over, a dammed tribal shaman told that _paladin_, Quartermain , that Africa wouldn't let him die.

He then proceeded to tell me that, for my part in what happened, and since I had such a large stable of descendants, Africa would suffer me to live, provided that I was selfless enough to come to the aid of any of them, legitimate or no, who needed it. Heh,"

He paused to give a suggestive wink,

"Apparently I was a bit prolific. However, the story begins with my death."

I looked at him quizzically, seeing an older, yet still rather alive fellow. He waved my questioning look away, and pressed on,

"Y'see, When the Huns invaded Belgium in '14, I sprang into action at the advanced age eighty-eight, and sick of all the war fever, decided that forcing myself into Buckingham Palace and demanding to use the King's privy on the eve of our declaration of war on the Boche would be a rather nice way of venting my feelings about the whole mess.

Besides, it was the closest one available at the moment."

He took another sip of the brandy,

"My uniform and medals meant that my motorcar made it through the press of the crowd unhindered. After an American acquaintance of mine bid me adieu and left me to face the music alone, I entered the palace in search of a loo.

I didn't begrudge Franklin that, he got out while the getting was good, the Rogue.

Unfortunately, I was waylaid by the King and his retainers.

'Why it's the Flash Cove himself!' Roared King George, 'Come to join the colours, one last time?'

'Come to find the loo, more like, young whippersnapper.' I mumbled."

As I snickered, Uncle Harry burst into laughter, and we remained in hysterics for several minutes.

"Ahhhh," He said, "Fat lot of good the impudence did me, for the King found me a spot in the BEF, and it was off to Mons. I managed to escape the worst of the trenches though; they don't expect a man of my age to set in 'em.

Besides," said he,

"I had quite a racket dealing with Supply and Appropriations as a member of the Military Intelligence-How's that for a contradiction in terms, eh?"

By this time, I had been reduced to nodding dutifully, which was really all he expected.

"By '15 I had 'obtained' lodgings at a brothel far enough away from the front-Far enough 'till some idiot decided to crash an aeroplane into it anyway!

I'm still not sure if it was that, or apoplexy from the tender affections of-ah-Louise? Lucille, That was it, Louise was the day before- that I was enjoying when everything went black that finally did me in.

I came to in a coffin- second time that's happened to me by the by, but I felt different, fresher, and somehow the words of a shaman I hadn't heard in decades shoved their way to the forefront of my mind.

I shoved off the poorly nailed lid-luckily they hadn't filled the grave in yet-put the lid back on the casket, and managed to haul myself out of the grave in the makeshift military graveyard. How I managed it at eighty-nine I didn't know, but I felt lessn' twenty. As I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window, I noticed that I looked it too.

I found out later that I only age one year for every two that pass, yet even at this ancient number, I can still move as I used to-Well, mostly anyway.

As to aiding the family, realized that I was bound to it. I recalled that I had a great nephew in the trenches, and supposed I had better get to him, and get him out of there."

"And did you?" I asked, "Did you get him out?"

"Mostly," said he, "He was a bit of a prig, but he was family. I shattered his leg with an Enfield at a hundred yards. Got him out of the muck, at least, back to his proper, insipid little wife, his idiotic investments and the vast gambling debt he'd managed to rack up to send him into the trenches in disgrace in the first place.

Dammed fool didn't have the minerals to cheat, but he kept pestering me for loans…"

I blanched, and he chuckled,

"Not to worry boy, Willy annoyed me continually-Not planning on shooting you in the leg young shaver, nor harming you at all-er, barring earlier anyways. You're family, and you've had a bad go of it so far, so I reckon it's my lookout to make it up to you."

I released a breath I was unaware I had been holding, and he chuckled again.

"Anyway, not three weeks ago in Africa, I finally got your Mum's letter. So here I am."

He gave me an evaluative look,

"So here _you _are, m'boy. You've heard the story. D'you still want te live here?"

I looked him straight in the eye, and told him the truth, which would rapidly become a rare act for me,

"Yes sir, I do. I want a good life and a long one. I'll kill anyone who gets in my way."

He measured me with a glance and nodded solemnly.

"You'll do. Right, if you're to live here, time for the rules. I've just got two."

"Rules for what, sir?"

"Everything m'boy, everything. now pay attention.

Rule one: Even when illegitimate or deranged, family comes first- s'why I got you out- exceptions of course being idiots who don' know better, and hypocritical bastards like the Dudsleys."

"Durselys, Uncle."

"Bollocks to 'em anyway, whatever they're called.

Rule Two: Survival at all costs-Hiding's good, running's better. Life's worth living, not sacrificing for a bunch of people you'll never meet anyway. If ye've got to kill-kill, and live with it, if ye've got to beg, beg away, and kill the daft bugger what listens to ye first chance you get."

I hadn't said a word, and he looked at me again. "You comprehending all this boyo?"

I replied in the affirmative-growing up at Number Four had meant memorizing excessive and complex chore lists. This was nothing.

"Blood will out, m'boy, blood will out. When I signed those papers, you became a legal Paget. Good name, Paget; bravery, nobility, and scads of class, but inside-"

He thumped his chest for emphasis,

"-Inside, you're a Flashman, and that means you've got to become smarter, sneakier and meaner than the other blokes in the schoolyard.

He hit me with a penetrating stare, "Understand?"

My expression did not change, but inwardly I relaxed a little-I was safe, and I might just have a shot at life after all.

"Yes sir." I answered.

"Harry," says he, "You're a sharp lad. With a little book learning and a bit of polish, you'll be able to charm the britches off anyone you meet-literally in some cases, I'd imagine- what with all the new female fashions-

But now, I think- bed. It's been a busy day, and a proper night's rest'll set ye right. Up the stairs, second room on the right. It's still a bit dusty, but you'll get to that soon."

He poured himself another measure of whiskey, opened a battered volume from the coffee table, and motioned a dismissal.

"Goodnight, sir," I said softly and walked up the stairs, leaving behind an old man with his ghosts, his demons and his memories of past conquests to keep him company.

I ascended to the next floor and found the room, but with the power off I couldn't see much.

I nodded off the instant my head hit the pillow. That night, as with many before, I dreamt of a high, cruel laugh followed by a bright green light. While I remembered the dream the following morning, I behaved as usual and paid it no mind.


End file.
